“You really are very funny!” she said. “Nothing seems quite to please you!”
“Why, no!—of course not!” he rejoined. “To be ‘quite’ pleased at anything, or with anybody, implies a bovine spirit—a kind of animal chewing-of-the-cud—which eliminates the brain and is concentrated on the stomach. I was never of that disposition. As for the kind old man, Durham, I am certainly not ‘quite’ pleased with him because I consider him too ‘quite’ pleased with you!”
She started and the book of verse she held fell from her hand.
“With me?” she exclaimed.
He stooped to pick up the book, and returned it to her.
“With you,” he repeated. “I will not say that his ‘soul rushes ever in tumult to thee,’ because I imagine his soul has long ago done with tumult—but I think he is very fond of you.”
She suddenly perceived his drift, and her expression grew cold, with a touch of hauteur.
“I hope he is!” she said, quietly. “I wish him to be fond of me!”
The Philosopher felt himself to be on rather dangerous ground.
“Do you, really?” he murmured placidly. “Well! I’m sure your wish is realised!” He paused—then, with an elephantine effort at playfulness he added, “After all, who would not be fond of you! Even I am fond of you!”